“Are you going to help me? Yes or no?”
“Yes, yes, yes … Let me prepare you for love, and no man or god will resist you, no matter what his inclinations are. Once I have scented you with the distilled attar of those flowers in whose amorous cups bees linger longest; once I have kneaded into your flesh my secret ointment which makes any hag as sleek and supple as a sixteen-year-old girl, then you can approach what god or man you will, and know that in two winks of an eye he will be grovelling before you.”
“Sounds promising,” said Hera. “I place myself in your hands.”
Poseidon had not dared to exert his full efforts in helping the Greeks until Hera had been given time enough to distract Zeus. What he did was stand as close as possible to the center of the Greek line where Great Ajax held the field, aided by his brother, Teucer, and Little Ajax. There, disguised as Calchas the soothsayer, Poseidon flung his arms heavenward and pretended to raise his voice in prophecy, crying:
“Great Ajax, Little Ajax, Teucer the archer: stand fast, stand fast. Resist the Trojans, and you will finally prevail. For a great god is coming to aid you, a great god I cannot name seeks your victory. He cannot come yet, but he will come and cover you with his mantle, and you will be invincible. So stand fast, stand fast.”
The three warriors, heartened beyond their own knowledge by the keen gull-cry of the pretended Calchas, fought more savagely than ever and held back the Greek advance.
Hera flew to Mt. Ida, to its tallest peak, Gargarus, where Zeus sat watching the battle unfold.
“Greetings, dear lord and husband,” she cried. “Forgive me for breaking upon your solitude, but I am departing on a long journey and did not wish to leave without saying good-bye.”
“Where are you going?” said Zeus without turning around.
“Off to the bitter margin of the earth where our uncle, Oceanus, and his wife, Tethys, reside. Lately it has come to my notice that they live in terrible loneliness with each other, keeping a cold distance between them because of some ancient quarrel, never exchanging a kind word, never dining together, nor warming each other with a caress. I go to reconcile them so they can live together again as man and wife.”
“Who do you think you are, Aphrodite?” said Zeus. “Lovers’ quarrels, reconciliations. She takes care of all that.”
Hera came very close to him.
“But I am moved by pity for my Aunt Tethys,” she murmured. And in her voice was the song of birds. “I know what it means to be denied a husband’s caress. To long for him with all my heart and soul and to be denied, denied …”
Zeus turned, then. Hera was very close to him. She gave off a powerful fragrance of sunshine and crushed grass.
“Besides,” she whispered. “Aphrodite has lent me her bag of tricks. Has tutored me in certain arts that are bound to reconcile that stupid feuding man and wife.”
By this time Zeus was completely enraptured by the sight of his wife, who looked as beautiful to him as she had when the world was very new and they had hid from their parents, old Cronus and Rhea, wrapping themselves in a cloud and loving each other with such hunger that the cloud had burst and the valley of Olympus was flooded. And Cronus and Rhea had been forced to give permission for the brother and sister to wed. He stood up and clasped her in his arms.
“Before you trundle off to the ends of the earth,” he said, “there are a husband and wife here who have some arrears to make up.”
“Right here?” she whispered. “Here on the highest peak of Ida? But all the Pantheon will see us. I am proud, proud to be loving you again my lord, but such revels as I plan are better done in privacy.”
“Privacy we shall have,” said Zeus. “Without moving from this spot.”
Thereupon he caused the rock to grow anemones and roses and hyacinths and sweet grasses to a height of three feet, making a soft bed. And he pulled down a fleecy cloud to cover them like a quilt, quite concealing them from view, shielding them from the sun with a delicious moistness, bathing them with the lightest of dews.
And the folk who lived in the village at the foot of the mountain felt the solid rock shake, saw their slopes tremble, heard the giant sounds of Zeus’ pleasure. And they fled their village thinking their mountain had turned volcanic and was about to erupt.
As Hera lay down with Zeus she released a dove which she had been carrying on her wrist like a falcon—a swift-darting, blue and gray bird specially trained to bear messages and keep secrets. It darted to earth, and found Poseidon where he stood on the Trojan beach disguised as Calchas. The bird cooed to him, relating Hera’s message that he could help the Greeks as much as he liked because Zeus would be too busy for the rest of the afternoon to notice what was happening on earth.
ATTACK AND COUNTERATTACK
BELLOWING AND DANCING IN his exultance, the Lord of the Deep cast off the guise of old Calchas like a tall tree twisting in the wind shedding leaves. He made himself invisible, all except his golden trident, and when he wielded the great three-tined staff it was like the sun-fighting clouds sending spears of light through the cover. Invisibly he approached Great Ajax and Little Ajax and Teucer and goaded them with his trident. A great salt wave of health broke upon their blood, filling them with the surging strength that the god of the sea can bestow. They led their men forward in a mighty rolling charge that smashed against the Trojan line like the ocean sending its white-plumed breakers to pound a foundering ship. And the Trojans, who had been so triumphantly victorious just a few moments before, now began to retreat.
Hector went purple in the face with rage, smacking his men with the flat of his sword, trying to harry them forward. Ajax, knowing his strength multiplied, stooped to pick up an enormous boulder lying half-buried in the sand—a massive rock, seemingly rooted in the beach—which twelve men had been unable to move. He raised it above his head with an easy motion and hurled it straight at Hector. It hit the Trojan hero’s shield, driving the shield against his chest, knocking him flat. He seemed to be crushed like a beetle; he lay under the rock, legs kicking feebly. But then with a last indomitable effort he thrust himself from under the boulder, and lay there, unable to rise, vomiting blood. Aeneas it was who lifted him onto his shoulders and rushed back toward Troy. Prince Troilus covered their flight, fighting like a young lion.
But when Hector left the field, the Trojans were shattered. The retreat was becoming a rout. By this time Poseidon had ranged behind the Greek lines where the wounded leaders stood in a cluster watching the battle. Agamemnon was there, Diomedes, and Ulysses. Patroclus was there too, tending their wounds. The comrade of Achilles was the most skilled surgeon among the Hellenes. Poseidon, keeping himself invisible, spoke to them in sea-whispers. A huge salt wave of health broke upon their blood, healing them, knitting bone, mending flesh. With loud, glad cries they leaped into their chariots and lent such strength to the Greek countercharge that the Trojans were driven back through the breach of the rampart, scrambling back over the fosse. Troilus tried to make a stand, so did Antenor, and a few other of the most redoubtable Trojan warriors, but they could not stem the Greeks alone, and finally had to flee after the Trojan force which had fled before.
Bedded on flowers and sweet grass, wrapped in a fleecy cloud, Zeus slept in Hera’s arms; and everywhere, except on the Dardanian plain where the battle wore on, lovers touched each other in sleepy rapture. Everywhere, over field and meadow, hung a haze of pollen thickening to a golden drift under the slant rays of the afternoon sun—so that lovers moving toward each other through the grass felt themselves cleaving a heavier substance than air, felt their very blood fusing into a golden heat.
But on the Dardanian plain men killed each other. Heavy metal blades cracked bone, sheared through flesh. Beautiful young men, naked under their armor, drowned in their own blood. And still the Greeks pursued and Trojans fled.
High upon Mt. Ida, on a peak called Gargarus, Zeus slept in Hera’s arms. But Hera did not sleep. Drowsy though she was, still her interest in earthly a
ffairs kept her from joining her husband in slumber. Which turned out to be a mistake …
Moving very carefully, very slowly, she slipped out of his embrace, slithered out from between flower bed and cloud cover, and walked to the edge of the precipice. She looked down upon the Dardanian plain. What she saw made her forget her caution and laugh aloud in triumph. The Trojans were in full flight, pursued by furiously yelling Greeks whose swords and spearheads dripped with blood.
With Hector gone, Paris fled, Troilus and Aeneas wounded, the Trojans were a disorganized rabble instead of an army. It appeared as though the Greeks might be able to storm the walls of Troy there and then. Again Hera laughed.
Too loudly! She heard Zeus grumble. She had thought him deep asleep. She whirled about. To her horror she saw him sit up, stretch, yawn—and scratch his monumental chest. She ran to him and knelt upon the flower-bed, stroking his shoulders.
“Do not awake, dear lord!” she murmured. “Sleep, sleep.”
But Zeus stood up. The habit of vigilance was strong upon him. Besides, into the depths of his sleep had wound a skein of mocking laughter. He put her aside gently and walked to the edge of the precipice.
“Don’t look down there!” she cried. “Why trouble yourself with mundane affairs? Rest, rest, great lord of creation! The rusty old earth will turn a few turns without you.”
But Zeus was looking down upon the plain. His huge brow was furrowed like striated rock. He whirled and took Hera’s throat in those enormous hands that crack stars like peanuts.
“Things have changed,” he said softly, “since we two lay down together. I left the Trojans ascendant. They had breached the rampart and were driving toward the Greek ships. And now, what do I find? Poseidon down there, my treacherous brother, who has turned the tide of battle so that the Greeks are everywhere triumphant. Tell me, was it coincidence, sweet sister, steadfast wife? Was our sudden encounter after all these centuries one of those happy accidents? Or perhaps part of a deeper design?”
“I can scarcely follow what you are saying,” said Hera. “Poseidon at Troy? The Greeks winning? But this is a very abrupt change—as surprising to me as it is to you. What can Poseidon be thinking of to defy your edicts this way? It’s dreadful.”
“Be still! Don’t try to play with me. I am very angry.”
“Angry at me? Do you so soon forget the delicious hour we spent?”
“No, I do not forget. And I may even look forward to other such hours—unless, of course, I decide to punish you so painfully that you will seek to avoid my company. However, we can postpone that decision. Let me attend to Poseidon first.”
The God of the Sea stood tall in his golden armor just beyond the beach, balancing himself on the surf like a child on a skateboard. From time to time he uttered a great northwind yell to hearten the Greeks. But matters were going so well now, he had little to do but watch the battle. Suddenly the sky growled. He looked up. No storm clouds at all, but a wide fair expanse of blueness.
Out of the blue sky shot a thunderbolt—a hooked shaft of white-hot light, burning the air as it passed. It plunged into the water, just missing Poseidon, immediately turning the sea to steam.
“What are you doing?” cried Hera, pleading with Zeus above. “Are you trying to destroy your own brother, Poseidon, Lord of the Deep? Think of the consequences.”
“He should have thought of the consequences,” growled Zeus. “I am consequence.”
“Consider his record,” pleaded Hera. “He may have transgressed a bit this afternoon, but after all up until now he has been the most neutral of the gods in this war, has been the one who has obeyed your edicts most strictly.”
“That is why my first bolt missed,” said Zeus. “As you know I usually hit what I aim at. I hope it serves as a warning. For my second bolt will not miss; it will gaff him like a fish.”
But there was no need for another bolt. When Poseidon saw the white-hot zigzag shaft of lightning hit the water he was bathed in steam; felt that he was being boiled like a lobster. And he knew that Zeus had seen him, and was angry. Pausing only to flick a quick idea at Ulysses, he uttered a whistle, which evoked his dolphin chariot in the wink of an eye. Instantly he had mounted the chariot, and was gone—down, down into the depths of the cool sea where all the creatures are too busy eating each other to bother about such things as war.
Poseidon’s last idea flew like a dart and hit Ulysses painlessly in the neck, passing into his head, nestling just beneath his consciousness ready to sprout as a full-fledged idea when its time should come.
“I cannot tell whether you are guilty or innocent,” said Zeus to Hera. “Perhaps I do not want to know. It is the essence of a beautiful woman that she bewilder—and in this a goddess is as a woman—so let it be. But do nothing from now on to change my opinion of your innocence. In other words, dear wife, keep your meddling hands off that war below, or I’ll cut them off.”
“Yes, husband,” murmured Hera.
“Now fly back to Olympus and send Apollo to me. We must undo the harm you have done. Let him come immediately.”
Hera was frightened. She did not take the time to fly but translated herself back to Olympus where she said to her stepson, Apollo:
“Go … go. … Go swiftly to Zeus. He awaits you on Mt. Ida, on the peak called Gargarus. He wants you immediately.”
Apollo appeared before Zeus, who said: “That briny uncle of yours has played us false. He has appeared among the Greeks, endowing them with such strength and courage that they are about to overwhelm the Trojans. I suspend my act of neutrality now—or at least amend it—so that we may be neutral on the Trojan side. Go to work, dear Phoebus. Rally the Trojans. Make them fight again, and prevail.”
Now, Apollo, of course, had watched that afternoon’s fighting, and had been much impressed by the feat of Hector with the chariot wheel. He took a spare wheel of his sun-chariot, one of those glittering golden disks, that, trundling across the blue meadow of the sky, refract the eternal fire as they turn, flashing; and that fire falls to earth in a benign glow that men call sunshine. He took this heavy glittering wheel, and, holding it as a shield, flew to earth.
He appeared among the Trojans, flashing his sun-shield at them and kindling their courage, burning away fears and hesitations. He went to where Hector lay on a litter, pale and crushed and unconscious, almost dead from the blow of Ajax’s boulder. Apollo focused light upon the fallen hero who, in the clammy grip of his swoon, felt the cockles of his heart warming, felt his every vessel filling with sap, putting forth buds. The amazed Trojans saw Hector arise, flushed with heat, eyes glittering.
“What are we doing here?” he cried in a voice like a trumpet. “Why here, in the shadow of our walls? For shame! For shame! The last I remember we were beyond the rampart, advancing upon the Greek ships, ready to put them to the torch. And now, and now … How could we have retreated so far? So soon?”
Troilus spoke. He had refused to be carried beyond the walls for treatment despite grievous wounds.
“I’m with you, brother!” he cried. “Both my arms are broken, but I can still lower my head and charge like a stag.”
Aeneas, also wounded, said: “A breath ago we were gripped by despair, ready to yield the city. And now—such a change! It is obvious, good friends, that a god is among us, that we have again earned the support of heaven, which we had lost for a bitter interval this afternoon. But the favor of gods abides only among the brave. So, forward under Hector! Forward! Forward!”
“Each prince to his chariot!” shouted Hector. “We will mount a chariot charge, one such as our fathers mounted in days of old, and still lie about.”
Now, the Greeks, who had been enjoying themselves chasing the Trojan rabble across the field and spearing them like rabbits, found everything changed. Instead of a fleeing mob scurrying toward Troy, they saw a rank of bright chariots rushing toward them with terrible speed. They heard the squeal of wheel against axle, heard the clank of weapons, and the bugling neigh of t
he chariot-steeds, and their eyes were assailed by splintering light. They saw light gathered in their enemy; light in sheaves, in quivers, in darts and lances; light splintering off breastplate and helmet, and brass wheel and brass coach, and the brass corselets of the chariot-horses. Light that splintered, quivered, danced; refracted by Apollo’s sun-shield—which, keeping himself invisible, Apollo wielded behind the Trojan lines, harrying them forward with bright cries. And the Greeks, seeing these phalanxes of light, hearing the bright trampling triumph of the chariot charge, knew indeed that the god who had been helping them had deserted the field and that a god who loved their enemy had descended in his stead. They turned and fled. Fled from the shadow of the city wall over the corpse-littered field, in their fearful haste stepping on the bodies of men fallen, not caring whether they were friend or foe.
Back the Greeks swarmed, back over the field, scrambled across the fosse, streamed through the breach in the rampart, and took a stand only when they had reached the first line of ships. The Trojans, doubtless, would have stormed through and begun to burn the ships had it not been for the superb courage of Great Ajax, Ulysses, Diomedes, and Agamemnon, who kept their heads through all the dismay of the route, and rallied their men to beat the Trojans back from the ships.
Great Ajax sprang on board his own ship. He snatched up his thirty-foot mast from where it nested in its cradle on deck, and flourished the enormous shaft as if it were a light throwing lance. He swept it over the gunwales of his ship breaking Trojan skulls like eggs, helmets and all, and swept the deck clear.
Then it was that the glinting dart of Poseidon’s last idea which he had planted in Ulysses’ head began to flower. Ulysses, close-hemmed between Diomedes and Little Ajax and locking shields with both, suddenly whispered to them: “Dear comrades, I quit you only on a matter of strategy. Lock your shields.”
The Trojan War Page 10